The Mercenary With A Dragon's Soul
by EverUponADream
Summary: Astantos has been a Mercenary for his entire life, scrupulously following the Three Rules. For him, absolutely nothing and no one else matters. That's when a lucrative job brings him to the bitter land of Skyrim. Caught up in a battle of the Gods, dropped in the middle of a Civil War, he soon realises that holding onto the Mercenary lifestyle isn't as simple as it had always been.


**Prologue**

 _The blade of the broadsword gleamed in the glare of the sun, its edge pristine, its surface flawless, and its movement, wielded by a master, graceful – and deadly. Like a cobra, it darted forwards; a straightforward, efficient strike, without any flourish or wasted movement, as though the weapon had simply materialised out of thin air in the perfect position to take my life. By comparison, my own sword felt dull and burdensome, my movements sluggish, my reactions slow. Rather than an elegant dancing instrument of death, I felt like I was a human trying to wield a giant's club._

 _With a ringing_ clang, _steel met steel._

 _A passable parry, downwards in a way that made any follow-up attack somewhat more difficult. Yet even as the tremor passed through the steel and up my arms, the threat had already shifted to my other side. Like the waves that pound away at the shore, the assault was steady and unrelenting. With every block, I could feel my arms grow heavier, my grip grow increasingly numb; each blow struck with the force of a great typhoon, and yet still flowed around my half-attempts at countering like a river flowing around a stone._

 _Block left. Block right._

 _Left. Left and down. Parry the overhead strike. Right. Right again. Left. R – !_

 _With an ear-splitting screech of steel, a sharp pain digs into my right forearm as it is forced backwards unnaturally. Instinctively, I loosen my fingers – and its all over._

 _The blade of the broadsword gleams even now, its edge pristine, its surface flawless, and its movement, wielded by a master, graceful. Like a cobra, it darts to one side, and curves back inwards, an efficient strike, without any flourish or wasted movement, as though the weapon had simply materialised out of thin air in the perfect position to take my life. By comparison, my own weapon lay uselessly on the ground where it had fallen, my fingers still curled around a phantom hilt, and my reactions stalled. My eyes are drawn inexorably to the flash of metal, my body frozen in place._

 _In an elegant arc that spans almost a full circle, the broadsword slices towards my neck._

With a gasp, I awake.

O===}=}========}

 _It's cold_.

Those are my first waking thoughts. My hands are numb, as are my legs. My feet were pressed into a cold, hard surface, and I could feel goosebumps all over my body even as the sweat from my dream dried in the bitter wind, chilling me to the bone. Instinctively, I try to wrap my arms around my body, but that motion is brought to an abrupt stop by a length of rope that I only just realised was there. It both binds my wrists tightly together and ties them to my waist.

My eyes, half-shut from drowsiness, shoot open and my head jerks up so suddenly that an unexpected bounce nearly throws me from my seat. Now fully conscious, experience takes over and I still my unnecessary movements, taking in my surroundings with a cautious gaze.

Naturally, I notice the cart first. It's roughly crafted from uneven wooden slats, held together by fraying rope and rusty nails. A quick glance towards the front confirms that the thing is drawn by a single workhorse and driven by a figure dressed in some kind of studded leather armour. In front of us are two more fully loaded carts, and behind us, a single horseman. The horseman notices my gaze and smirks smugly.

 _That arrogant sod,_ I think, narrowing my eyes. Before I can begin to imagine how satisfying it will be to wipe that smirk off his face, or indeed, wipe his entire face off his head, I'm rudely interrupted by the man seated opposite me, and for the first time I take in my companions.

The one who spoke was a burly-looking man clad in some sort of warmer, leather, tunic-like armour. His blonde hair was dirty and unkempt, a few strands on either side braided together to frame his face. Like me, his wrists were bound and tied to his waist. To his left, my right, sat a seedy looking man with dark hair and blank, unseeing eyes. Unlike Burly, Seedy was only wearing clothes made from crude cloth. Though he, too, was restrained, the dried blood and fresh rope burns around his wrists told me that he had been trying to free himself for a good while now.

Finally, my eyes came to rest on the man who shared my side of the cart. This one was dressed in some sort of warm getup made of black fur. Not only was he bound like us, but also gagged with a dirty, white strip of cloth. His hair looked as though it had once been fair in colour, but was now dark, grimy and streaked with dirt, the same dirt that covered his face. Still, his eyes, glittered coldly, as though behind those obsidian orbs raged a silent storm raged.

"Hey, you!" Burly says, giving me a nod, "You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there!"

 _Border?_ _What border?_ _And what's this about an ambush?_ Before I could raise any of these questions, however, life finally flickers in Seedy's (the thief's?) eyes, and he turns to glare furiously at Burly.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he muttered angrily under his breath, "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy." Despite his heated words, however, I could still pick up a tremor of trepidation in his tone. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

 _Skyrim?_ The name sounded familiar, _H – argh!_

I wasn't particularly interested in Seedy's vexation, or the cause for it, but his remark causes a sudden spike of brain to ram itself though my skull and deep into my brain. I open my mouth to shout, but the sound gets lost somewhere in my throat and all I manage is a grunt. My vision turns white, as white as the snow that covers the land around us, and in a flash, I remember everything.

O===}=}========}

 _I had always been taught that there were only three rules to being a mercenary._

 _Rule One: You get paid, you do the job._

 _It doesn't matter if the task was harder or easier than expected, if the pay was there then the job had to be done. Naturally, this wasn't really the case for a lot of sell-swords and self-proclaimed adventurers these days – they put too much value in their own lives to throw it away for coin._

 _Rule Two: If the job is done, then the client pays._

 _Usually, Mercenaries get paid half-and-half. Half before the Service, and half after. It was the half before that guaranteed a Mercenary perform their duty and in turn, it was this duty that ensures the client pay the second half – in one way or another._

 _Rule Three: There were only ever two objectives: to perform the Service, and to protect yourself – in that order. Anything else is just an obstacle – either cut it down, or push it to the side._

 _Of course, I knew very well the sort of reputation that Mercenaries had in the minds of the ordinary people, and the disdain that soldiers and supposed 'Knights of Honour' held them in. It bothered me once – at least until it was beaten out of me._

 _It doesn't matter what the others think, the man who taught me always said. Let them have their pretty rituals, their 'rules of engagement', their so-called honour. Let them have it, and pay them no heed, for we have our own Trinity, our own sense of honour. It is the standard we should always hold ourselves to, and those that do not should not be allowed to name themselves as a Mercenary._

 _Above all, remember this: we go where the gold leads._

 _We go where the gold leads. It was one of his favourite sayings, and he would oft repeat it around the campfire, or over his cup at the tavern. When he took up the most dangerous jobs, some of the others would look at him like he was insane, but he'd quell all their doubts with that single sentence. We go where the gold leads. If the client was paying enough, then he'd do it._

 _It was one of his favourite sayings, and it was the last thing he ever said to me. A month after he left on that one-man job, a courier handed me the gold he had made, and his broken sword._

 _After that I worked alone. It didn't really matter to me what the job was, as long as the pay was good. I looked – and was – quite young, a man barely past his 20s, and on more than one occasion, my youth must have emboldened some of my clients, for they tried to withhold that which was due to me. Each time, of course, I still took my payment – more often than not out of their cold, stiff fingers. Soon enough, there were none who tried to give me less than our agreement._

O **===}=}========}**

"You there." It takes me a minute to realise that Seedy's talking to me. His eyes are wide, pleading, but his next words nearly make me laugh. "You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

I do my best not to roll my eyes. _What does he want me to do about it?_ I wonder. _Ask the guards to let him off?_ Unlike me, Burly has no such reservations, and lets out a snort.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." He says, completely indifferent to the glare that Seedy sends his way. Before Seedy can reply, he's interrupted by the driver, of our cart – an Imperial Soldier, I now realise, as are the rest of them.

"Shut up back there!" he orders, without even turning to look at us. With that, we enter a stagnant silence, and I'm left alone to my thoughts.

O **===}=}=========}**

 _It was more than 3 months after I started working solo that rumours regarding an extremely lucrative job first reached my ears. Like most jobs, I learned of it at the local tavern, which was usually the hub of all news, both proven and otherwise._

 _Skyrim – the cold, bitter land of the Nords. Supposedly, half of it was covered with snow, all year round. It was the land of the ancients, ancestral burial sites and, if legend has it right, Blackreach – the largest and most impressive bastion of the Dwarves._

 _It wasn't the first time I had heard of Skyrim, of course. It was a major part of the Empire, after all, not to mention, being a Nord myself, my homeland. However, I had never felt any attachment to it, nor any desire to visit – in fact, I barely remember any of it at all. I went where the gold leads, and it had never led to Skyrim._

 _Until now._

 _The shadier the tavern, the more interesting the jobs; the tavern I was in that day was very, very shady. The Withered Oak had more than its fair share of darkened rooms and corners, lit only dimly by the small number of candles littered here and there along the walls. With few windows and tightly shut doors, smoke hung in the air, making it even more difficult to peer into the shadows. In small, private alcoves along the sides, hooded patrons gathered around dirty, uneven wooden tables, discussing business – whatever their business might have been – over tankards of foul-smelling, piss-poor alcohol. It was probably one of the worst places in the area for a drink, which meant it was one of the best places for Mercenaries to find news that was more than drunken ramblings._

 _I don't know the name of the guy who runs the place. I don't believe anyone who goes there does. His ancient face, lined with wrinkles and decorated with numerous scars, was in every single memory I had of the Oak – he was as much a part of the tavern as the floor and walls. Every visitor to the Oak spoke to him before they even considered doing anything else; it was almost a ritual, born out of respect – and quite a bit of fear – as well as practicality. The man never seemed to move out from behind his bar, and yet still managed to know every single thing that was happening under his roof, even in the dimmest, darkest corners. He had no qualms about divulging all this, to anyone, for the right price. A price that any good Mercenary worth his fee would be only too happy to pay._

 _Of course, I was no exception._

 _A hundred and ten gold pieces and a tankard of lousy mead later, he spoke, and I found his words to be most intriguing._

" _I wondered when I'd see you again," he grinned, stretching his disfigured face most grotesquely. I didn't reply, and he didn't expect one. We weren't friends, or even associates – just two selfish men with some mutual interests._

" _Over there, third alcove on the left," he said, indicating the direction with a subtle tilt of his head. I risked a glance over, masking the motion by taking a close-mouthed sip of my drink. "I think you'll want to be somewhere near those two. It could make you quite a bit of coin, provided you're not afraid of a bit of travelling." He didn't need to tell me that I'd need to take the job from someone else, most likely with some forceful negotiation. That much was a given._

" _How much, and where?"_

" _Twenty thousand. Skyrim."_

O **===}=}========}**

Twenty thousand Septims. It would have been one of the largest payments I had ever received from a job, enough to last me months, perhaps even a year, without needing to work, if I was so inclined.

Of course, I knew full well that the job wasn't going to be easy – it was twenty grand. But by that then, I had built a reputation of being the one man who wouldn't turn down any request, as long as the price was right, and I'll be damned if I was going to let this chance slip away. Whatever the trouble was, I was sure that I could handle it. Sure, there was some sort of civil war going on, sure Skyrim was full of giants, trolls, and who knows what else, but how hard could it be?

Well the answer to that, apparently, was pretty damn hard, considering that I was now bound on a cart with what appeared to be a prisoner of war, a horse thief and –

"And what's wrong with him, huh?" Seedy, the horse thief, was asking Burly, the prisoner of war, indicating the warmly clad but ice cold man seated beside me. Out of all of us, Burly seemed the most knowledgeable about what was going on, although I certainly had my own suspicions.

"Watch your tongue," Burly snapped, turning around on his seat and dipping his head to the ice-man. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

Ulfric . . . Stormcloak?

Two _prisoners of war and a horse thief then_ , I thought. _So this was the infamous Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the Skyrim Nordic Rebellion._ I had heard of him, of course, even without setting foot in Skyrim. Murderer of Skyrim's late High King, self-proclaimed Skyrim's current High King, and overall ineffectual commander. Despite taking an open stand against the Cyrodiilian Empire in a land filled with his countrymen, he had reportedly gained little ground in the war. Though he appealed to many, and has the sympathies of more than a few Jarls, his lack of military success had ultimately led to a stalemate, one that the Empire didn't even take very seriously, if their response was anything to judge by. I don't think there was even a full legion in Skyrim to combat the 'threat'.

Not that I was complaining. War was a Mercenary's primary business, and even more so a civil war.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" Seedy was asking, his voice now laced with terror. Hearing it made me want to curl my lip in disdain, but I refrained with great difficulty. There was no point in making even more enemies now, since I could very likely need his help to escape later – at the very least, he'd make a good meat shield. "But if they've captured you . . . oh Gods, where are they taking us?"

"Here's a hint, thief," I replied, leaning back to sit more comfortably. "It involves an axe, and quite a bit of blood."

Burly's lips twitched, but remained sedate.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

O **===}=}========}**

 _Fear is not a poison. Poisons are weapons, and if used correctly, can be extremely effective. It doesn't matter if other's think you're cowardly. Once a good poison enters their system, they won't be thinking at all. No, fear is an illness. It makes you weak, inefficient. It wastes valuable time. It makes you useless._

 _That was something_ that man _loved to tell me, whenever I'd flinch in the face of one of his attacks. And every time I'd flinch, he'd make sure to hit me harder the next attack. Pretty soon, I learned to keep my eyes open and not flinch at all. If you have time to be afraid,_ he said, _then you have time to think of a way out of the trouble you're in, and so there's nothing to fear._

 _The two cowering 'swordsmen' in front of me, however, had clearly never been taught this lesson. They shrunk back against the wall, pressing into it as though hoping it would simply open and swallow them up. Anything to get themselves away from me, and I didn't even do anything. Well, almost nothing, at least. Surely ramming a dagger hilt-deep into the table couldn't have been_ that _frightening?_

 _Ignoring their frozen expressions, I casually took a seat in the alcove, and leaned back comfortably. I didn't need to speak – a simple hand gesture was enough to indicate that one of them had better start talking, and fast. After a short pause, the one closes to me began letting his mouth run – he must have thought that he'd be the first one I'd kill if I wished._

 _Twenty thousand gold to be earned in Skyrim. When I had first heard it from the barman, I definitely thought it was too good to be true. What kind of impossibility was worth twenty grand? That was more than enough to purchase several properties, in the richest parts of the city, and refurbish them, with still yet more coin left over. As it turned out, however, the job wasn't completely insane after all – if it actually existed. The details, according to the two, were quite simple, in fact._

 _It was nothing more than a rumour; supposedly, someone important from Cyrodiil had left their post to go travelling. Their real purpose? Unknown, but apparently nefarious. Their destination? Skyrim, to seek certain individuals willing to take up some sort of incredibly high risk job, for a large reward, no questions asked. The large reward had been spotted, by chance, by a passer-by, who had no idea of the importance of what they had just observed – twenty thousand gold Septims, to be delivered to the Service Provider, upon completion of the task._

 _Naturally, the two milk drinkers in front of me weren't planning on actually performing the tasks. They were cowards, not idiots. Any job worth twenty thousand was going to be damn near impossible. Instead, the two had decided to take the craven's way out, and simply find this client, and ask him for the gold – nicely, of course. What a joke. It was sell-swords like these that gave Mercenary's a bad name. After just a few minutes, I was pretty sure I managed to convince them not to follow through with their plan._

 _However, what they had revealed greatly intrigued me. Was the rumour based on fact, as many rumours oft were? And if so, how much fact, exactly? Would it be possible at all to find this 'mysterious Client', and even after finding them, would he actually have twenty thousand Septims? I definitely didn't plan on travelling to Skyrim with only rumours as a guide – it would be a waste of time and resources to travel there and be forced to return, empty handed – or at least, with my pockets reasonably empty, seeing as I was bound to find_ some _work in a country currently in a state of civil war._

O **===}=}========}**

It was well past noon, and the sun had already begun to dip, by the time we crossed the crest of the mountain and began to descend. The temperature, which had been freezing the first time I woke, seemed to be falling even further, and I alternated between shivering in the rags with which I was clothed, and dozing fitfully. The entire procession was silent – only the racket of the creaking wagons could be heard, jouncing over the frosted, uneven cobblestone path. It was a grim cavalcade that made its way through the forest – even the local wildlife appeared to have hidden away, and the single deer I saw atop a lonely hill seemed to gaze at us with sorrowful eyes, before bounding away into the darkness.

It wasn't that I was resigned to my fate, whatever it was going to be. Though I had first been vigilant and on the lookout for any opportunity to escape my captors, it soon became apparent to me that no such opportunity was going to present itself while we were on the carts. There were simply too many guards, my motion too restricted, and my options too limited. If ever there was going to be a chance for me, it would come when we dismounted. I was under no illusions: that would be the final stop – there was going to be no imprisonment, not for any of us, not with one of the prisoners being Ulfric Stormcloak.

It was difficult to accurately judge exactly how much time had passed, when Burly's voice finally broke the silence.

"Hey, where are you from Horse Thief?" he asked, his voice subdued. Seedy looked up, his eyes strained.

"Why do you care?"

Burly tilted his head, and glanced towards the setting sun. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." He didn't need to ask me – if I had been in his place, I wouldn't have asked him, either. Between the two of us, there was simply no need.

Lokir heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders visibly slumping as the tension drained out of them. He looked out into the trees, his eyes distant. "Rorikstead. I'm . . . I'm from Rorikstead." There was nothing more to say.

O **===}=}========}**

 _Though I had believed the vague rumours of some great job in Skyrim contained not enough substance to make it worth my while to actually travel such a great distance, I could not help my interest in the matter, and for the next week, I kept an ear out for news. Occasionally, a few of the Oak's patrons would know of the rumour, but nothing they had was any more trustworthy than what I already knew. It was somewhat frustrating, by ironically by no means unproductive – in pursuing the truth, albeit half-heartedly, I uncovered many more opportunities for work that I would most likely not have picked up ordinarily._

 _By the seventh day after I first heard the Skyrim rumour, I had almost given it up as a complete fabrication. The only thing that kept me even mildly interested in the matter was the sheer_ lack _of information. It definitely appeared the details were extremely well hidden – and those who were hiding it must have a reason for being so careful about it. However, suspecting that there was some authenticity and actually acting upon it were two different things entirely._ That _was when I finally received news that would make my decision for me._

 _Hey, did you hear? It seems the great trip to Skyrim the Emperor had been planning has been cancelled!_

 _That was the announcement that greeted me on the morning of the eighth day. Everywhere in the city, from the pubs to the street corners, people from all walks of life were locked in discussion about the surprising decision. The common citizenry breathed a sigh of relief; they had been afraid that with the Emperor leaving Cyrodiil, even temporarily, the Aldmeri Dominion would take the opportunity to extend their unwelcome influence even further into the Empire – a foolish and extremely unlikely fear perhaps, but most of them didn't know better. On the other hand, many of the merchants, especially those based in Skyrim, groaned; they had hoped to gain the Emperor's interest and possibly his favour by inviting him to their properties, to try their products. As for the nobles, the rich, the Elder Council, they sneered. It was extremely ill-mannered for the Emperor to cancel such a visit, especially considering how close to the date of departure it had been – not to mention, the purpose of the entire trip had been to celebrate his own cousin's wedding, and event that the Emperor was now sure to miss._

 _All this information I learned that very morning of the eighth day, and it told me one very important fact: there was something happening in Skyrim, and it was going to be big._


End file.
